


3:00 am Epiphany

by cottonballz_of_death



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Complete, Cuddles, Cuddling, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, Happy Ending, John is naked during this entire fic, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, One Shot, Post The Great Game, Schmoop, So Sweet It'll Rot Your Teeth, Sort of but not really pining John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-10 02:02:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2006787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cottonballz_of_death/pseuds/cottonballz_of_death
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is determined to figure out the reason for his flatmate's change in behavior after the pool incident with Moriarty. Naturally, John is less than thrilled to wake up in the middle of the night to find Sherlock watching him sleep.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>He gave an exasperated sigh, “Do you have any idea how creepy that is?” </i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>“Sorry, John, you are going to have to be more specific.” </i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>“You, looming over me, watching me sleep.”</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>“I don’t understand what you mean. I’m just observing you in order to confirm a hypothesis. It’s not like I’m planning to murder you or anything.” </i></p><p> </p><p>This was originally a fill for the <a href="http://sherlock-rant.livejournal.com/10843.html">Rant Meme Fic Exchange.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	3:00 am Epiphany

John was not alone. His heart raced and his breath quickened. His first instinct was to leap to his feet and lash out, but caution bid him to remain still. A heavy weight dipped the opposite side of the mattress. He tried to recall whether he’d brought someone home. No, it wasn’t a woman. There hadn’t been any women for quite some time, not since he’d discovered--

“Did you know that you are terrible at faking sleep?” 

_“Sherlock!”_

Sherlock sat cross-legged on the pillow beside him looking down with the sort of keen interest usually displayed by eight-year-olds burning ants with a magnifying glass. 

John sat up, desperately clutching at the bed sheet. He didn’t usually sleep naked, but it was August and his tiny upstairs room trapped the heat from the rest of house, turning it into an oven until the early morning hours. Now there was only a tissue-thin layer of fabric between himself and his flatmate’s far-too-observant eyes. 

He took a deep breath in an effort to regain his equanimity and put a leash on his imagination which flashed an image of Sherlock leaning over him, tugging the sheet from his hands, and—

He wrestled his mind into submission. “What are you doing here--in my bed--at three in the morning?” 

“Studying your sleep patterns. I noticed that over the past four weeks, the number of nights that you’ve suffered from insomnia has tripled. You’ve been more irritable of late and your alcohol consumption has increased five-fold. I thought you might be suffering from some post-traumatic stress from the pool incident. The timing fits, so I’ve been watching you sleep to see if you have any nightmares.” 

This was too much to take in. There were so many things that were wrong with this situation. The very last thing he needed was Sherlock perched in his bed, somehow managing to look alluring in a pair of faded old pajamas and a blue dressing gown. 

His current problem wasn’t post-traumatic stress, but rather, unrequited love. Over the course of the terrible night at the natatorium, he’d made two discoveries: first that he was willing to sacrifice his life to save his friend and that second, friendship was not the only word that characterized what he felt for Sherlock. 

He knew that he would eventually have to confess his feelings. He owed Sherlock honesty and his own heart would not allow him to remain silent forever. However, he needed time to find the right words. Explaining emotions did not come easily for him, and understanding the emotions of others came even less easily to Sherlock. The only thing more painful than the inevitable icy rebuff he would have to face was the thought of having to expose his deepest self twice because Sherlock didn’t understand it the first time around. For now, he was biding his time, trying to organize his thoughts and turn them into words that would make sense to a man without a heart. 

In any case, he had to get up early in the morning which meant he didn’t have to dig deep to summon his usual indignation. 

He gave an exasperated sigh, “Do you have any idea how creepy that is?” 

“Sorry, John, you are going to have to be more specific.” 

“You, looming over me, watching me sleep.” 

“I don’t understand what you mean. I’m just observing you in order to confirm a hypothesis. It’s not like I’m planning to murder you or anything.” 

John rolled his eyes. “Well that’s a relief.” He needed Sherlock to get out of his room. Awareness of his proximity assaulted his senses. His smell, deodorant and expensive soap filled the room. Heat radiated from his body. Images from an erotic dream that had ended with Sherlock on his knees at the edge of his bed flashed through his mind. 

He was already half-aroused just from their brief contact. He needed to get Sherlock out of there before he noticed something was untoward. 

“You need to leave.” 

“Why?” 

“I can’t sleep with you lurking about, and unlike you, I have to be at work in the morning.” 

“You’re a soldier. Surely you’re accustomed to sleeping with other people in the room.” 

“That is irrelevant. Flatmates do not watch each other sleep. Now get out.” 

Sherlock’s lips tightened. “Fine.” 

He unfolded himself from the bed and swept out the door, his dressing gown billowing behind him like a cape. 

Once he was sure that his flatmate had gone, John lay back down and pulled a pillow over his face to silence his groan of frustration. 

*

Sherlock retreated to the kitchen in order to muse over John’s lack of receptiveness. He was worried about him. After the night at the pool, he had changed. The comfortable relationship they shared had evaporated. Now most of their interactions were guarded conversations punctuated by long silences. Sherlock had ignored his strange behavior for a few days, assuming it was just leftover tension from the case. 

Eventually, though he realized it must be more than that. He began observing John’s behavior, wracking his mind for plausible explanations. It became an obsession. John wasn’t okay and he desperately needed to find out why. 

The truth was that he did know what was wrong with John, but he didn’t want to admit it to himself because if it were true, the implications would be too painful to bear. John was most likely suffering from post-traumatic stress. This should not have been so distressing. They lived a dangerous life. Bad things happened, and sometimes those bad things left scars both on their bodies and their psyches. However, Sherlock feared that _he_ was one of the triggers that was exacerbating John’s current condition. It was the only possible explanation for John’s tension around him, the drinking, and the insomnia. 

Still, he needed additional information before he presented his final conclusion to John. 

He briefly puzzled over why his friend had been so upset by his presence in his room tonight, but quickly gave it up. The logic behind the social mores of ordinary people made no sense to him. He had probably just violated one of those stupid rules of polite behavior that John found so important. 

He ran their conversation through his mind again. The sticking point wasn’t that he had been in John’s room while he was sleeping, but rather that he was awake while John was asleep. Therefore, if he were to sleep as well, it should be alright. 

Problem solved. Now, he had a way to continue collecting evidence without arousing John’s ire. He decided he would sneak into his room and fall into a light sleep, which would allow him to wake up if John exhibited any signs of a nightmare. 

Although he would never admit it to anyone but himself, he’d felt a certain fascination with the sight of John clothed in nothing but a bed sheet. His limbs were short, but powerful, and he had a surprising amount of body hair. He had almost forgotten that John deliberately wore clothes that made him appear harmless. It was a shock to see how virile he looked when he went unclothed. 

With an effort, Sherlock yanked his mind away from this line of inquiry. He was able to ignore his sexual needs, though it had become more difficult since John moved in. He tried to avoid thinking about what he felt for him. Caring would get him nowhere. It would only muddle his mind and make it even more difficult to determine the cause of John’s problem. 

*

Once the breathing pattern on the other side of the door indicated that John had entered into his first REM cycle, Sherlock crept into the room and slipped between the sheets. 

He silently let out a breath of relief when John did not stir. He watched him with one eye until the rhythm of his breathing shifted, indicating that he was shifting out of the REM cycle. He had time for a short nap before it began again. 

He woke to the sound of John’s body sliding against the sheets. John rolled toward him. His eyes darted back and forth behind lowered lids. He was dreaming. With alarming speed, his arm shot out and wrapped around Sherlock’s waist, blocking any attempt to escape. The other hand plunged into his briefs and curled around his cock. Sherlock’s gasp of shock instantly transmuted into a moan. 

With one touch, his long-thwarted yearning for physical contact overwhelmed both his reason and higher motor functions. His pelvis ground against John’s hand of its own volition. 

John pressed a kiss into his neck then whispered, “Yes, Sherlock, please, please.” 

The sound of his name awoke his sleeping conscience. Allowing John to do this when he was not awake was wrong. He grabbed his shoulders and shook him. 

“Wake up. You’re having a dream.” He tried to remain emotionless, but he couldn’t keep his voice from breaking. 

The hand around his cock tightened for an instant. Sherlock winced when John’s look of confusion morphed into shame. 

John slithered away from him. He jerked the sheet to his chest, holding it between them like a shield. He didn’t bother asking stupid questions. 

“Why are you here?” His voice was a hoarse whisper. 

Sherlock had overstepped, and not in his usual overbearing way. This time, he had crossed a moral line. He had caused real harm. The only way he could even begin to repair it was to be completely honest with John. 

“I’ve been worried about you.” 

John snorted. “You? Worried?” 

“Ever since that night at the pool you’ve been different. I was afraid you might be damaged somehow. I thought if I gathered enough information, I would be able to see the entire problem, that I’d be able to help you.” 

“Have you been able to reach any conclusions?” 

“No, to be honest, your inner workings have become been a bit of a mystery to me of late.” 

There was a long pause. He could see John’s mind sorting through what he just said. Uncertainty furrowed his brow. 

“I touched you in my sleep didn’t I?” 

Sherlock swallowed. “Yes.” 

“You moaned when I did it.” 

His heart raced. “Yes, yes I did.” He whispered. His throat was tight. His mouth felt dry. 

“So you enjoyed it.” John’s face was unreadable. 

He couldn’t bring himself to speak. He nodded. 

“You’d like me to do it again.” 

“Yes, I would.” He replied tentatively. 

John gave a single nod and smiled, “Good. I’d like to do it again sometime too.” 

Sherlock would have collapsed in relief if he wasn’t already lying down. As it was, he had to suppress a hysterical laugh. 

John scooted over until he was snuggled against his chest then pressed a close-mouthed kiss against his bottom lip. Sherlock tilted his head down and kissed him in earnest, pressing his lips against the delicious wet warm that was John’s mouth, taking what he’d craved so desperately, that up until that moment he’d not given himself permission to want it. 

A dark thought flashed across his mind. He pulled away. “I don’t want this to be just sex. I want you to give me everything. I want to give you everything.” 

John reached up and tugged one of his curls. “Considering that your defining personality trait is that you are literally incapable of doing anything half-way, I wouldn’t ask this of you if I wasn’t willing to give you my heart and all of the attached bits that come with it. Now-”

Sherlock cut off whatever else he was going to say with a kiss. The triumphant joy that John was _his_ combined with the electrical storm of stimulated nerve impulses in his brain, blotting out all rational thought. For possibly the first time in his life his mind was a whirl. 

John pulled away, gasping for breath. He smiled. “You were wrong.” 

“What? No, I wasn’t!” 

“I don’t have post-traumatic stress.” 

Outraged pride warred with happiness. Happiness won. “What was wrong then?” 

John smiled and took Sherlock’s hand. He pressed a tender kiss into the center of his palm “How about you deduce it and I’ll tell you if you’re right or not.” Then ever so gently, he pressed Sherlock’s hand against the left side of his chest, where his heart was. 

After a long moment, realization dawned. Sherlock couldn’t suppress the smile that spread across his lips. He pulled John close with one arm while the other curled lightly against his ribcage. He had never in his life been happier to be wrong. 

The End

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of the very first things I wrote for the Sherlock fandom. Please don't hesitate to leave any comments you may have. I love and treasure all them. If you want to find out when I will post my next story, you can check out the [fanfic page on my Tumblr.](http://cottonballzofdeath.tumblr.com/tagged/fanfic)


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